


sinew burns like shrapnel (and I can't tell them apart any longer)

by ammunitionist



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon, Touch-Starved, first time in a while, poor scho man he just needs 2 get some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22399654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ammunitionist/pseuds/ammunitionist
Summary: schofield sleeps alone.blake knows better than to think he likes it.
Relationships: Lance Corporal Schofield/ Lance Corporal Blake, William Schofield/ Thomas Blake
Comments: 14
Kudos: 337





	sinew burns like shrapnel (and I can't tell them apart any longer)

They aren't close enough to the front for barracks.

Schofield sends up a silent thank you for it, he never liked sharing a sleeping space. As a child he'd throw tantrums if he had to sleep with his sister when they had guests over. It was petulant, sure, and spoiled, definitely, but something about surrendering his privacy was just unacceptable as a ten-year-old.

He'd always been so insistent on that, privacy. It was almost funny how little of it he had now.

Out here, a field in the seemingly endless countryside of northern France, he gets a little more than the trenches afford. The river nearby means bathing in relative solitude, a sort of protection he'd taken for granted until shipping out for the first time. It wasn't anything sexual, nor anything dangerous, but that amount of exposure just terrified him. Schofield's need to be barricaded in from the world came in direct conflict with his current occupation- there was no isolation in being a foot soldier. The very profession was violating; physicals and close quarters and men in every nook and cranny of a person's life.

Schofield sometimes considered desertion in puerile thought, simply on the basis of the claustrophobic conditions.

But here, it's better.

On clear nights, he can sleep under a tree and no one will tell him to return to their tents of tarp and metal, two men per. Schofield picks beech before chestnut, chestnut before oak, and oak before pine. It's in order of the bark, the smoother the better. There's a thick, old beech tree at the edge of their encampment, and it's his go to when the moon is dull in the sky and the stars seem to be on leave from their posts. Otherwise, it's too bright.

When it is, he turns to the trees at the far edge. They're nearer the tents, so he has a harder time ignoring the shifting lights and quiet chatter. He doesn't mind it in theory, but it feels like he's being watched- like they are trying to know him.

Schofield has been forced into the tents only twice. Both times, torrential downpours soaked the ground, running in little rivets down to their horses and mess area. France had no wet or dry season, but it was summer. Rain was bound to happen.

Both times, a Lieutenant has nudged his leg with a boot and told him to _get on with it_ and return to his tent.

He shares with Blake.

At first, it was Turing, an annoying fucking Scot with a terrible lisp and too much to say about the bodies of women he'd slept with. He didn't bathe much either, reeking of old onion and mustard and something not quite sour but close enough to be tossed in the bin. Schofield disliked him at best, finding repeatedly that any attempts to indicate his disinterest were completely and totally ignored. He couldn't think of a good reason to swap out, but lucky for him the man went on medical leave before Schofield exploded.

Rumor has it that it was syphilis.

After that, Scho assumes he'll just be given the tent to himself. A few other soldiers have them alone, he knows because they talk about wanking more haughtily than the others, and why should he be treated any differently? Blake is amongst the jokers, though his penile humor predated their arrangement here.

Unfortunately, it seems like Schofield was the last straw. The next day, their Lieutenant announces that any men with tents to themselves will be regrouped and their spare shelters were to be shipped off to another battalion in need.

Schofield braces himself for another unpleasantly necessary arrangement.

And then it's Lance Corporal Thomas Blake.

He liked Blake, actually. Everything about the younger man would indicate the contrary, but Schofield found something about him to be irresistible. He had a similar draw on several of the other troops, some of them staying up until the fire was embers to listen to his ridiculous stories. He could weave a tale out of anything, fact or fiction. The men may scoff at the outlandish ones, but they know why they stay.

Schofield becomes very skilled at ignoring how Blake's words make him feel. How the movement of his lips to form fantasy make his gut sting, like a hemorrhaging stab wound. He's ridiculously good at it.

* * *

He wakes up against his tree at call. The sun isn't high enough to be in his eyes yet, and he feels well rested.

Most of this damn war is waiting, so there are no orders. The rest of the battalion mill around, drinking thin coffee, eating beans and toast, and scrapping with each other in words Schofield doesn't care to register.

Yawning, Will sticks one hand in his sandy hair and immediately retracts it, wincing at the amount of dirt and oil his fingers draw away. The standard was different at the front- this would be considered clean- but out here, with fresh water readily available, Schofield saw no reason to neglect his hygiene.

He takes his misshapen wad of soap from his kit and slips out of camp, assuming most of the soldiers would still be eating. A soft wind rustles the trees above, and Schofield lets it blow loose strands of hair across his forehead.

Before the war, Will had a love for soft things.

Now, he can only think about how the breeze would carry their campfire smoke to an enemy.

Schofield strips quickly, efficiently. He only folds his clothes so they can sit on top of his boots neatly, trying to keep a bit of the river mud from leeching their uncomfortably sulfurous scent into his garments. Barracks were where your clothes were folded. Here, it didn't matter.

The water is cool against his calves as he wades into the water. His skin there is pale, unmarred, hidden from the sun by wrapped linen and leather boots for months now. The current smooths over the phantom aches, memories of his muscle melting into itself after miles of trudging through clinging muck.

Schofield descends slowly into the water. At its deepest, it comes only to his waist, so he has to lean back and let the current take him horizontal.

Peace comes when the water slithers over his eye sockets.

Will bathes himself methodically. While hygiene is his excuse, Schofield really just wants the solitude. Weightlessness gives him freedom, privacy gives him pause.

He has his back in the direction of camp, washing his hair, when the sound of footsteps makes him whirl on the rock he stands on. Schofield expects a lieutenant, or some other messenger come looking for him. He figured he'd be back in time for role, but-

"Hello, Schofield! Mind if I join you?"

And then it's Blake.

Will just stares at him dumbly, blankly, the words having washed over him like the water did moments ago. Blake just walked in like it was nothing, knowing Schofield was fully in the nude, and asked to join?

"Um," he says, but Blake is already unbuttoning his coat. Schofield knows he should be irritated by the younger man's lack of obeisance but he really can't- he's too busy trying to rip his eyes away from Blake's hands moving down his torso.

Scho tears his gaze away just as Blake shoves his knickers down his legs and slides into the river.

"Buggers back a'camp are really pissing me off," Blake grumbles, immediately sinking so the water comes to his chin. "All they talk about is fucking and drinking."

Schofield looks at him strangely. Blake was usually in the thick of camp life, laughing and making shitty innuendos with the rest of them.

"And you don't?" Will asks with faux mildness, earning a splash to the face in return. Blake scoffs, but he smiles.

"That's why I like you, Scho. Brevity is the soul of… brains, or something."

"Soul of wit."

"Right, that."

After that, it's silent. Schofield watches the trees, watches how they writhe under the contact of the wind. He finds a sort of kinship in their resistance.

  
William has caught himself up in the business of a small cluster of poplar trees when the swirl of water by his thigh indicates to him that Blake is much, much closer than he should be. Schofield recoils, moving back from the sudden presence.

"What are you-"

"You've got a leaf in your hair."

"Oh."

Scho bends his head slightly, letting Blake reach up to pluck the leaf out. He thinks it's a necessary evil, letting Tom into his personal space for but a moment, but the touch lingers.

He doesn't say anything. Not sure why, Schofield lets the touch linger against the crown of his head.

"I don't know why you're off on your own all the time."

Blinking, Scho looks down at Blake.

"What?" He says numbly.

"You like to be touched. I've seen it."

The hand trails slowly down his head, through his close-cropped hair, reaching the nape of his neck. William sucks in a stuttering breath, unused to the touch and startled by Blake's forwardness.

"You don’t want to show it, but you like it. You like this."

"Blake, I don't-"

Tom's other hand comes up to Schofield's chest, palm flat and smooth against his pectoral. It brings Will up short again. His heart jumps within his ribcage, apprehension and reluctance forcing breath between his lips.

If someone were to catch them, they'd be shot on sight. No questions asked. Blake's poor mother wouldn't even get a letter why.

His lips crash into Blake's with the heat of a man dying in the Sahara.

Blake is happy to reciprocate. He pulls Schofield agonizingly closer by the nape of his neck, tugging a stuttering groan out of Will's throat.

"Why did you-"

"Shut up."

From there, it's a blur. Schofield has hands everywhere on his body, they're blinding him, and he can't deny Blake the pleasure that he's leeching from him. It feels too good to be where it is. This is the pleasure he dreamt of at home, the pleasure he had completely forgotten in war.

At one point, Tom comes. He ruts his groin against Schofield's leg until his body goes stiff and he lets out a low, soft groan into William's ear, the very sound almost too intimate to bear. Schofield can't help the way it makes his cock jerk.

He takes his own hardness into his hand and meets bliss.

Blake steps from the water, shaking himself dry crudely and picking up his knickers.

Schofield watches from the far side of the river, shock laying a sort of mute over his senses.

He watches as Blake's hips flex against his breeches, his shirt hanging loosely from his damp torso. Tom bends in a way Schofield swears is meant to be erotic, and somehow, it is. Even as he's buttoning up his coat, Will can't bear to stop watching.

It's no show, but Will can't look away.

Fully dressed, Tom glances back. Will sees his eyes glint with a mischief that makes parts of him spark with desire. 

"You should spend more nights in the tent. Loads more privacy."

**Author's Note:**

> whew chile anyway
> 
> thank you for reading!! this is my first venture into nsfw with these boys and honestly it was going to be a Lot more explicit than this but hey, you do what you gotta do for art. 
> 
> comments appreciated- especially if you guys are interested in more nsfw- heavy writing :)


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